


The Other Side of The Wall

by TheMouthKing



Series: Bangtoberfest 2K17 [5]
Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Kinktober, M/M, Masturbation, Overhearing Sex, Pining, kinktober 2k17, overhearing masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 19:28:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12464349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMouthKing/pseuds/TheMouthKing
Summary: Link jerks off alone in his hotel room every time they travel, but the walls are thinner than he thinks they are. Rhett can hear him every damn time.Rhett's side of the wall (part 2).





	The Other Side of The Wall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thisiscyrene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisiscyrene/gifts).



> So, y'all, I loved [Obsecration](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12380724) by ThisIsCyrene so damn much, I asked if I could write Rhett's side of the wall. She said yes, and here we are.

Contrary to what Link might think, hotel walls aren’t that thick. 

They’ve been a while now able to get their own hotel rooms when they travel, but it hasn’t meant the end of awkward times. These days it’s not figuring out how to share a bed with Link, but laying in a lonely hotel bed next door to him, sharing a wall with him, trying to sleep despite the sounds that make it through the too-thin walls.

Tonight’s not the first night it’s happened, not by a long shot. As a matter of fact, Rhett thinks he’s practically got the timing worked out. After they say goodnight in the hallway as they head into their rooms, it’s always about a half-hour, maybe forty five minutes tops before it starts up. 

Rhett knows from years of sharing a room with Link what his nighttime routine was. Ten to fifteen minutes of rattling around the room, getting himself settled, pulling out tomorrow’s clothes and finding his toiletries and then it’s time for his shower. Typically, his showers were quick, but here and there, they’re longer than five minutes and at those times, Rhett’s _wondered_ , but they’ve never discussed it. The same way they never discussed how Rhett’s morning showers had gone a little bit long sometimes, too. Start to finish, it was never longer than a half hour before Link settled down in bed beside him to try to sleep. 

These days, it’s never much more than a half hour before it becomes obvious that Link is most definitely _not_ sleeping on the other side of the wall. 

Tonight’s no different. Rhett’s been stretched out in bed with his phone propped on his chest, flicking through Twitter and Instagram for about fifteen minutes when he hears it. Link’s voice saying something. _What?_ Who knows. But then, a _groan._

Rhett freezes in place, thumb poised over the screen mid-scroll, and strains to listen. He can’t make out individual words, but it’s unmistakably Link’s voice talking. He’d think he was on the phone, except he knows well enough that isn’t true. Once upon a time, he’d asked Link the next morning if he’d called Christy the night before, and gotten a rather bashful _no_. 

No, Rhett knows damn well what Link’s doing on the other side of that wall. He’s touching himself. Laid out on that big hotel bed with his cock in his hand, working himself over and _groaning._ Talking to himself like he doesn’t have a goddamn ounce of shame. What Rhett wouldn’t give to be able to hear clearly through the walls, to make out exactly what it is he’s babbling about over there between the moaning. God, how long has he had to put up with this kind of torture? Years. Fucking years, but that’s no excuse. It’s not as though Link is over there jerking off to thoughts of _Rhett_. He needs to just… get over this, somehow. 

But, god, he doesn’t know how he can with Link always just out of reach. There but forbidden, next to him on set and stage, shoulder to shoulder and sometimes _closer_ but never close enough, never crashed together the way he aches to. Link on the other side of the wall is the closest he’ll ever get to what it is he so desperately wants, and alone in the privacy of his own room, he’s started to give himself over to the fantasy of it. When the mumbling and groaning through the walls that Link has still not figured out are paper thin start to get a little louder, that’s when he sets his phone aside. When he palms himself. 

He’s naked in bed. It’s the way he sleeps at home and it’s no different here, as nice as the room is and he alone in it, so it’s easy let lazy scrolling through his feed give way to not-so-lazily touching himself. He’s just this side of half-hard, working that big hand and long fingers over himself slow and easy as he listens to the show going on in the next room. The show Link’s putting on just for him… he knows that’s not true, and even as he thinks it, in spite of the fact that no one’s here to witness what he’s doing in response, he feels his face grow hot with shame. _If Link knew what he thought when he heard this._

If Link knew how he touched himself, listening to those muffled moans, how many times he replayed it in his mind, he wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye. But shame doesn’t still his hand. 

Not with the sudden, loud groan that comes through the shared wall clear as day. More mumbling, voice low and inaudible through the wall but _desperate_ in a kind of way that has his mind wandering, has him wondering. But the question absolutely disappears from his mind when he hears Link cry out loud and clear. 

It stills his hand on his cock and there’s a long beat where he doesn’t move at all, like he’s afraid if he does he’ll miss a moment of this. But there’s not a fucking chance of it, loud as Link is. Those cries don’t stop, but climb louder, rise to a crescendo. 

Link isn’t jerking off, he realizes, his own hand curled loose around his now achingly hard cock. He’s _heard_ Link jerking off dozens of times, dozens of agonizing times. He knows what it sounds like, he knows the variations. The slow build and the peak of it, his own hand and thoughts clearly sufficient but nothing to cry out over, nothing to lose himself in near-screams with. 

No, Link’s fucking himself. Rhett’s eyes are round and wide like pie-plates as he strains to hear. _Fuck_ , he’s gotta be. There’s no way all that ruckus is coming from a fist wrapped tight around his cock, that kind of noise feels like the relentless rhythm of being fucked. Rhett’s face is hot and red as he pictures it, Link bent in half over a bed or a desk, _their studio desk_. Jesus. 

His hand is moving again. Keeping still for fear of missing out on the show he’s eavesdropping on be damned; he needs this. Rhett exhales hard, breathy, _silent_ , straining to hear every last muffled sound on the other side of that wall as he works himself off frantically. 

That’s when it happens. When he hears it. Loud and clear as day, every fucking word of it audible. 

“Oh _God yes_. Rhett! Fuck me, please fuck me!--” there’s more, _there’s more_ , but that’s where his brain completely shuts down. 

Link’s fucking himself, he’s _fucking himself and screaming Rhett’s name_. Screaming it. Loud and shameless, for anyone to hear. He’s got to know he can be overheard, right? Maybe not. Probably not, actually, knowing Link. Knowing Link, he’s just gotten carried away, a walking awkward situation if he’d ever met one. 

Carried away fucking himself alone in his hotel room, screaming his name and begging to be fucked. Begging for Rhett. Shouting in a tell-tale staccato that Rhett can feel in the core of his being, that hard rhythm he’s fucking himself to. All at once he knows it’s over, he hears that last hard shout and _nothing_. 

That’s what kicks him into motion, into action. For the briefest of seconds he considers finishing. He’s in a panic. _Stay or go?_ If he stays and finishes first, Link will be asleep. Worse, he’ll lose his nerve with the immediacy of the moment past him. _Now_ he has all the urgency of Link’s need ringing in his ears to spur him on, and he’s moving so fast he’s practically falling over himself. He hasn’t felt this awkward in his own skin since he was nineteen and hit his last growth spurt, fumbling through his suitcase now for something to pull on that he _can_ pull on that won’t let his erection escape. Pajama pants are straight out. Why the fuck had he even brought them? He pulls out a pair of joggers that he’d packed for sleeping on the plane and he’s barely in them before he’s out the door. 

He’s standing at Link’s door, fist poised to knock when he hears his own hotel room door soft-close shut. He’s simultaneously chickening out and realizing _he forgot his keycard._

He doesn’t get the option of chickening out now. 

Well, he could, but that’d mean going over and knocking on Stevie’s door in the middle of the damn night with a hardon to beat the band, and that is _not_ happening. 

So he knocks. “Link?”

Nothing. Not a sound. He leans close, presses his ear near the door, but _nothing._

“L-Link, please. I- I heard you. Please. Please let me in. I-I need to see you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Cyrene, for letting me join your dirty little fic. I had so much fun!


End file.
